


Observation Hypothesis Experiment

by ilookedback



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, author has zero scientific knowledge but tried to use it as a theme anyway, just a LOT of lusting after javier peña and not a whole lot else, very mild teasing/power dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26110168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: You notice, on a hot day, how his temple sheens with sweat, how his hair goes dampened and flat, how his patience turns a little short. You watch him and you see how the humidity makes his thin linen shirt go transparent, how the planes of his chest show through the fabric. You see him abandon his tie and unbutton a third button and raise a sweating glass of ice water to his forehead for relief, and how he sucks at his cigarette and glares at the ineffective fan perched in the corner of the room.You observe, and you wonder, and you hypothesize. And you want.(written for yespolkadotkitty, who requested a fic about licking tequila off of Javi. Amen.)
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Observation Hypothesis Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Over on tumblr, yespolkadotkitty requested a fic about licking tequila off of Javi "just once, as a treat," and then we were texting about it and she told me, “I’d be happy to do it more than once. For science,” and I said, “Once is a treat, twice is the scientific method.” And then I thought, oh, maybe I'll make that the theme of this whole fic. And now here we are.
> 
> Unbetaed. Title is from science, instead of a song lyric, for once.

You’re not a scientist by training, but you like to observe the world around you. Think about what makes things as they are. You notice a lot, with your observer’s gaze, taking in details and filing them away in the back of your mind until you can fit them together with some new piece of information, making a whole bigger than its parts.

So you notice. The golden tone of his skin, how it lightens to pale under the edge of his shirt collar and sleeves where it’s hidden from the sun most days. The delicate dip at the base of his neck, framed by his unbuttoned shirt. The top button is never done up, even when he’s wearing a tie, and you like that, being able to see the flash of skin at his throat, unconstrained by formality or the stuffy rules of fashion. You like seeing him undone.

You notice, on a hot day, how his temple sheens with sweat, how his hair goes dampened and flat, how his patience turns a little short. You watch him and you see how the humidity makes his thin linen shirt go transparent, how the planes of his chest show through the fabric. You see him abandon his tie and unbutton a third button and raise a sweating glass of ice water to his forehead for relief, and how he sucks at his cigarette and glares at the ineffective fan perched in the corner of the room.

You observe, and you wonder, and you hypothesize. And you want.

You wonder what the surface of his skin tastes like. You think you could make the breath catch in his throat if you got your mouth on him, if you got to graze your teeth over his chest and lick the salty sweat from the length of his neck. You think you’d like to experiment to find out what it takes to make him groan and you wish you could feel his hands on your thighs, gripping you tight and pulling you open to take what he wants.

He catches your gaze from across the room and he holds it like he’s waiting to see if you’ll look away first, and it takes everything to sit still and not show every thought on your face until he finally drops his eyes back to his work. You cross your legs and press your thighs together and rock microscopically in your seat, trying to quell the aching desire sitting deep in your belly.

He’s waiting outside after work and as he falls into step beside you, you realize he’d been waiting for you, and your heartbeat picks up. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and he’s already looking back in your direction.

“Do you need something, Agent Peña?”

He huffs out a breath, like he’s amused, and shakes his head. Sticks his hand in his pocket, casual. “Do _you_ need something from _me_?” he asks.

“No,” you tell him, but your voice is just shaky enough to make it sound like a lie.

“You’ve been watching me,” he observes. Not a question. “Every time I look up you’re staring at me.”

It’s not like you’d thought you’d been subtle, but you thought. Maybe you thought it was a game, the fantasy all for play from the safe distance of your corner desk. Now he’s right beside you, close enough for you to see the shadow of stubble growing along his jaw, the softness of his hair curling behind his ear, and the smile lines creasing at the corners of his mouth as he smirks at you.

“You’re doing it again,” he points out. You take a breath to deny it, to apologize, to explain— _I just like to see things as they are and as you are you’re beautiful_ —but he’s turned on his heel to face you and his fingers are circling your wrist, eyes steady on yours and his voice dropping dirty-teasing insistent when he asks, “Is there something you _want_ from me?”

You want to say yes, you want to say yes, you want to say—

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” he says. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me what it is.”

He sits close to you at the bar, close enough to share your air, too close for how hot it still is even with the sun gone down, and you breathe in the scent of him, tobacco and sweat and faded cologne, and you feel the perspiration all down your spine, making your shirt stick to your back. His hand is sitting on the low back of your chair, an inch away from touching you.

He orders a whiskey on the rocks and you order a tequila, and he laughs when you down it as a shot and immediately orders you another one.

He takes a sip of his drink while you wait for the bartender to pour yours, and he holds the whiskey in his mouth like he’s savoring it before he swallows, setting his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Take it easy with that one, honey,” he advises, nodding at the new drink. “You still have to tell me what you want from me before you get too drunk to remember.”

He’s teasing, challenging you, like he still thinks you’ll be too timid to say it out loud and he’ll have to coax it out of you. Or tell you himself exactly what you want because he can read it on your face, in every look he’s caught you shooting him as the days have gone by.

You’re not sure he really knows. What you really want. How you want to taste every inch of his skin and hear every sound his vocal chords can make. How you want to catalogue every moan and repeat your experiments to see if you get the same result every time, or if sometimes your mouth on his body makes him whimper and sometimes it makes him groan and sometimes it makes him shout.

He thinks he knows what you want, but he probably doesn’t.

“What if I showed you?” you ask.

He raises an eyebrow and smiles indulgently and shrugs. “Sure,” he says, and he shifts in his seat to face you more squarely. He’s still got his arm resting on the back of your barstool and he thinks he’s got you pinned and he thinks you’re going to kiss him.

“Tilt your head back,” you tell him.

There’s a long breath of silence as his eyes narrow with surprise that he’s trying not to show. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, hesitating, and then silently tips his head back, watching you through his lashes.

“More.”

He has to drop his hand from your chairback to lean back further, and you stand up and move so you’re hovering next to him. He tilts his head to watch you.

It’s a fascinating, welcome development, this discovery that he will do what you ask of him without questioning it.

“More,” you say again, and you rest your hand on his stomach and give a little push, moving him horizontal.

“You want me on the floor?” he murmurs, but he hooks his feet around the chair legs for balance and leans back, ab muscles tensing under your hand.

“There,” you tell him. “Perfect.”

You wait another beat to see if he’ll move, and he doesn’t, so finally you pick up your glass of tequila and carefully pour a little into the hollow dip between his clavicles. He inhales sharply, hissing through his teeth, and keeps still as you lower your head and finally get your mouth on him.

It’s like his skin was made to be a mixer, the way the salt-sweat balances the sweet, rounded tang of the tequila. You touch your tongue to his delicate skin and drink him in and lick him clean and he gets his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you up by the back of your head, angling his own body back upright to tilt his head and press his mouth to yours. Tasting you back. He runs his thumbnail lightly along the base of your neck and you feel the sensation right through your core.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, mouth moving against your lips. “Christ,” he says, pulling away. He downs the rest of his own drink in one swallow, letting the ice click against his teeth, and pushes your glass towards you, gesturing for you to finish it as he pulls out his wallet to settle the check.

“I thought you wanted me to take it easy,” you tease, and he looks pained.

“Take it easy on _me_ , honey, and let me take you home.”

Your body feels light, like the air in your chest has partly gone helium, but he’s got his hand wrapped around your wrist, grounding you, ready to pull you where he wants. You follow his example and finish your drink, let the burn of alcohol shiver through you, and try not to feel disappointed when the taste pales in comparison to the liquor you’d drunk off his skin.

He crowds close as he leads you to the door, heat radiating off his body to be absorbed by yours. You think about how he’d stayed silent with your mouth on him, nothing more than a hiss of surprise, and you know you need to try again, expand your research methods until you can get him to moan for you. But you’re up to the challenge.


End file.
